


those bright languid segments

by marit



Series: a series of cats [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cats, Getting Back Together, M/M, Napping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 17:00:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5936083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marit/pseuds/marit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For once Steve can’t be jealous of Bucky talking to the cat more than Steve. This is more than he could ever ask for, more than he ever bothered trying to hope for, and he wants to remain awake but he can’t keep his eyes open. Instead he clings to the feeling of it as he finally falls into sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	those bright languid segments

**Author's Note:**

> You don't have to have read [part 1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3914818) but it's useful for backstory. I have never had such lovely feedback on something I've written, but was thrown a bit by how sad people found it. I thought it was just vaguely melancholic, but that might be because in my mind I had decided it all worked out past the end of that story. I just didn't write that. So here you go: A bit of a sequel with little dialogue and lots of words, and all the intermediary stuff I had planned cut out so that we could just get to the sappy getting-back-together bit. Thank you for reading.

When he gets home, Bucky is curled into the corner of the couch with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and his feet peeking out from under it. His face is squished against the arm of the couch and his hand resting by his head, causing the rest of his arm to obscure most of face. He doesn’t wake at the soft click of the door, which in itself is a miracle and also testament to how exhausted he must be. The cat cradled in the hammock created from the stretch of the blanket between curled-close leg and arm barely raises her head to look at Steve before lowering it again and closing her eyes.

Steve has to fight the urge to crawl onto the couch with him, to curl around his back and let his weight settle and relax. He’s been gone for nearly two weeks and most of that time was spent in action, a favour for (the apparently alive) Coulson and Fury that he had only reluctantly undertaken out of a weird combination of guilt and annoyance.

He shoves it out of his mind and near-silently shuts the door. He carefully places his shield on the floor in the entryway and drapes his coat over the door handle so he doesn’t have to deal with the potential jangling noise of the coat hangers. He’s wearing civilian clothing underneath it, because with the collapse of SHIELD and helping two dead men came the inability to wear his suit and stand out from the crowd. He hadn’t been wearing his coat at the time so it thankfully remains unscathed, but his clothes, dirty and bloody and ragged, are more or less destined for the garbage. 

He sheds them once he gets to his bedroom and then wonders whether he wants to risk running the shower or not. He feels disgusting and his whole body hurts from a combination of being knocked around and sheer tiredness, and he knows if he doesn’t shower now it might not happen for hours because he will undoubtedly fall asleep. He forces himself to ignore the part of him screaming not to wake Bucky up for anything and just hopes that the part of Bucky’s mind that seems to automatically sense Steve is safe keeps him asleep through the noise. 

The heat is a relief and he finds that once he’s in the shower he doesn’t want to leave, and he ends up sitting on the hard tiles letting the spray do the work for him. He leans his head against the side and just lets himself sit there for a bit, trying to encourage his body to relax at least a bit. It’s unnecessarily indulgent and largely ineffective but he still sits there for much longer than he normally would (not that he’d normally sit in the shower at all) before he forces himself to his feet. He’s probably missed spots but he doesn’t bother being more thorough about the cleaning. He realizes once he’s exited the shower that he didn’t turn the fan on and the room is full of steam--whether it was a subconscious effort to be quieter or just forgetfulness he isn’t sure. His bedroom is comparatively cold and he has to forcibly ignore his bed in favour of pulling comfortable clothes on and going back out into the main living area to see if Bucky needs anything. 

Except Bucky is somehow still asleep. 

Steve hovers uncertainly two feet away from the couch. He had unconsciously formed some sort of plan to pull him onwards: Shower, then make sure Bucky was fine because he had spent two weeks in the apartment alone and they both know that is never going to be a great thing, and then sleep. Except now his middle step is taken away and he doesn’t know that he should sleep in case Bucky wakes up. Steve can’t be helpful if he’s asleep.

So he stands there attempting to think straight about what to do but in reality not doing much thinking at all. There is a weird sort of stress thrumming under his skin, the kind that comes from the drop off of adrenaline, being away, and a mission with people he doesn’t entirely trust. 

Eventually, after way too long just staring at Bucky and the cat’s sleeping forms, he gives in to what he really wants to do and sits down on the other end of the couch. It’s not nearly as close as he wants to be but it’s at least in the right proximity, and if Bucky wakes up Steve’s likely to as well. 

He dozes, or something close to, until the cat pushes herself up with a sleepy, quiet inquiring sort of meow that seems to come out unintentionally. The small sound startles Steve awake even though normally he’d barely pay attention to it, and he barely catches himself before his body automatically jumps up to standing position. He makes himself settle back again, pulling his feet up onto the couch and his legs in close. The cat arches her back while balancing on Bucky’s leg, which causes him to shift, and Steve watches warily, hoping it didn’t wake him up. Instead he just pushes down further into the couch, his head sliding down the arm into a position that is bound to hurt his neck after too long. His arm comes up to cover his face completely and he’s probably at least partially awake now but Steve lets him be instead of acknowledging it. 

The cat jumps onto the back of the couch, stretches again, and then wanders over to Steve’s side to push her head against his. 

“She wants to sit on you.” Bucky’s voice is quiet and rough with sleep. It makes Steve’s breath catch in a way he doesn’t want to acknowledge, so after a quick glance over to see him still covering his face, he looks away again. The cat is a convenient resting place for his eyes, even if the view is awkward with her right beside his head. 

There’s a brief pause where they just stare at one another before she reaches out and taps him on the nose with one paw, bringing a reluctant smile to his face. He obliges and follows Bucky’s implied advice, lowering his legs back down. She immediately hops down onto the couch arm and then somewhat carelessly onto his lap, front left paw sliding down his thigh and into the space between leg and couch arm before she straightens out.

The apartment is quiet and still. The heat turns on with a soft click. Someone in the building has music on low, Steve’s own enhanced hearing barely picking up the quiet piano. It’s mid-afternoon, most people at work or otherwise occupied. Neither Bucky nor Steve says anything, Steve’s tired brain weirdly entranced by watching the cat, her paws digging into his legs as she does whatever it is she is doing to attempt to make his lap comfortable enough to settle on. She finally turns in a circle and then tucks her legs under, the front half of her body on his slightly sloped chest so that she is staring up at him. 

She doesn’t usually do this with Steve. She lounges and sleeps on Bucky often, but when she spends time with Steve she’s usually completely awake. When she sits on him she’s generally still alert, watching whatever it is he’s doing over the edge of the table or wherever else they are. She seems to essentially see him as a piece of furniture that moves periodically, a good way to get a bit more height and a bit of a personal heater. 

Except for now, where as he watches she slowly settles even further, shifting a bit until one leg is sticking straight out in front, her paw reaching toward his shoulder. Her eyes drift closed and he doesn’t think she’s fast asleep but she’s certainly relaxed, her fur soft against his left arm. He thinks he knows now why Bucky lets her do this. There’s something comforting in the warmth of her stretched across his body. She’s like a small, temporary de-stressor. 

He’s watching her so closely, the small rise and fall of her body as she breathes, his mind gone oddly blank, that he doesn’t notice Bucky sit up until he’s suddenly much closer than he was before. Steve manages to contain his startle so that he doesn’t jostle the cat, reluctant to give her any excuse to leave. It’s been maybe five, ten minutes since she settled there and he wants it to last.

Bucky’s rubbing the side of his neck when Steve glances over. The blanket has fallen down to pool around his waist and his legs are still tucked up on the couch. He looks like anyone else after they’ve woken from a nap. His hair is out of place on one side, and his skin looks soft and warm. He looks relaxed and still sleepy, although Steve doesn’t doubt he is also fully aware of everything that’s going on nearby. He doesn’t think Bucky, this new, post-Winter Soldier version especially, could ever turn that off. 

Steve doesn’t even realize he’s staring until Bucky looks up at him, his eyes still a bit hooded with exhaustion but also somehow wary and inquiring. He doesn’t say anything, though, and Steve doesn’t look away like he should. He knows he’s revealing too much, knows that things are different now and can’t be like the way they once were, knows that it’s silly to ever hope. And he doesn’t, really, he never hopes anymore. It’s ridiculous and stupid, them just sitting staring at one another, but it’s also soft and quiet and there’s a relief in Bucky just looking at him, his eyes eventually moving to catalogue all of Steve’s injuries.

“It go all right?” Bucky eventually asks, breaking the silence. 

“Yeah,” Steve says, still not looking away but he finds he doesn’t even care right now, too tired to make himself do what he should be doing, to make himself contain all the emotions revealing themselves to the room at large. 

Bucky doesn’t respond. He stretches a bit and then shifts a bit closer along the couch. He carefully picks up Steve’s right hand, raising his arm enough so that he can look at the large gash across the underside of his upper arm. He so rarely touches Steve anymore that he has to stop himself from reveling just in that. 

“Stitches?” he asks.

Steve shrugs, or as best as he can with one arm trapped between cat and couch and the other being gently held aloft. “Should’ve. Didn’t.” 

Bucky glances up at him with a glare in his eyes, a silent gesture that indicates the words he’s not saying, the “Idiot, take better care of yourself.” He looks back at Steve’s arm, and then runs one finger very softly down the length of the cut. It sends Steve’s hair standing on end and a barely noticeable shiver down his back. He’s torn between pulling his arm out of Bucky’s grip so as to not reveal too much and trying to encourage more of the touch. He’s saved from making a decision when Bucky pushes on the edge closest to Steve’s elbow, making him jump from the sudden jab of pain. The cat opens her eyes but doesn’t move, just looks mildly affronted that Steve dare startle her that small amount. He feels a bizarre need to apologize to her. He refrains.

When he looks back up from the cat, Bucky’s still glaring at him, still holding his arm in the air unnecessarily. 

“Any others?” he asks.

“My leg,” Steve admits. “Everything else’s just bruising. It’s fine.”

Bucky waves him off with one hand, and it’s a gesture so reminiscent of their shared past that it catches in Steve’s throat. It’s quieter, now, Bucky’s protective streak of Steve, but it’s slowly been reemerging. Steve’s too scared to look at it too closely, as if by acknowledging it it might just disappear or Bucky will take it away.

Instead he lets go of Steve’s arm and allows it to fall back to the couch, where his hand briefly rests against Bucky’s knee before Bucky stands up, untangles himself from the blanket, and disappears into the kitchen. Steve lets his head fall back against the couch and worries that maybe he let too much sneak through. He should’ve ignored his exhaustion, should’ve worked through it and kept on guard so that he didn’t scare Bucky off or put any pressure on him. 

He worries for no purpose, and five minutes later Bucky returns with a sandwich in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. He hands Steve the sandwich and then stands hovering similar to how Steve had when Bucky had been asleep. It’s not really enough food but it will do well enough now as a snack, and he finishes it quickly. Bucky takes the lid off the bottle and hands it to him, because Steve can’t open it without dislodging the cat that has now settled heavily into the crook of his left elbow and across his stomach. He drinks the whole thing and Bucky takes the empty bottle from him before finally sitting down on the couch again, as if he couldn’t relax until Steve had been rehydrated and fed a bit of food. 

They still haven’t spoken much, but they never do so it hardly feels awkward. Steve starts to drift off again, and he should really go to his bed now that he’s more or less verified Bucky doesn’t need anything from him. The cat is still there, though, keeping him in place, and Bucky’s relaxed and slowly, probably unintentionally, leaning more toward Steve than the other arm of the couch. It’s comfortable and it’s content, and moving seems like too much effort for something that wouldn’t be nicer than this is.

Bucky eventually slides, half asleep, into Steve’s shoulder. He doesn’t think it’s intentional, since Bucky seems to startle back awake when his head hits Steve’s arm. He doesn’t straighten out, just stays there with a sort of hesitancy that Steve can’t let continue because he wants this as much as anything, more than almost anything, and while he will never admit to how much, he doesn’t want Bucky to ever think it’s unwelcome.

So he repositions his right arm and gently guides Bucky into a more comfortable position. His head ends up practically on Steve’s stomach, and the cat opens her eyes long enough to look at the top of the head before she also shifts and places one paw on his hair. A small smile flickers across Bucky’s face when she does, a private little thing that Steve’s not sure he was supposed to see. Bucky rarely smiles in his vicinity anymore. He probably rarely smiles at all, but now Steve’s wondering if he’s secretly been smiling at the cat all along. It’s stupid to feel jealous of a cat, but he does a bit. 

His hand settles on Bucky’s arm eventually, because there’s nowhere better to put it. He’s scared to have too much contact in case that’s more than Bucky wants, but he doesn’t seem to care. Just before he actually falls asleep, Steve feels him curl even more into his side, his almost-closed fist nudging into the side of Steve’s thigh. If he weren’t half asleep he could savour this more, but now that it’s nearly there he can’t resist sleep, having been putting it off for too many days already.

 

 

When he wakes up the cat is no longer there, and he’s slid down the couch further and sideways. Bucky’s head is no longer on Steve but instead pushing against his hip bone, Steve a curled body above him and along his curved back so that his head, if it wasn’t atop his right arm, would be settled in the dip of Bucky’s waist. It’s close to what Steve had wanted in the first place, curling into Bucky almost like they used to. He should move. 

He goes to sit up, trying to move as carefully as possible so as to let Bucky continue to sleep, but as soon as he shifts Bucky makes a small sound of displeasure and grabs his left hand. 

“Don’t. Warm,” he says, and whatever wakefulness had returned to his voice before has disappeared entirely again. It’s much too tempting to simply relax into his body again, and that’s dangerous. 

So he sits up fully instead, all carefulness gone now that Bucky’s already been disturbed from his sleep. It can’t have been too long that he was sleeping, but it’s nearly dark out now. It’s winter, so it’s probably only been a couple hours at most. Long enough for Steve’s body to protest both the injuries and the awkward sleeping spot, though. He’s stiff and aching everywhere, and tries not to wince as he stretches his neck to the left.

Bucky sits up quickly and forcefully, his glare back and aimed at Steve. “I said don’t.”

Steve shrugs away from his annoyance. “I should--” he gestures vaguely toward the bedroom. “We aren’t--” he cuts himself off from wherever he was going with that. He wasn’t sure of the destination of that sentence himself, and that’s dangerous as well. He feels half asleep and foggy, and usually this is when he takes himself away from Bucky so that he can let him be, continue to be the friend he needs and not whatever it is Steve has craved all his life. He had it, once; that should be enough.

Bucky’s glare softens, and Steve doesn’t know if it’s because he reads something in Steve’s posture or tone, or if it’s because Bucky did that in the past, quickly got over whatever transgression Steve made, and he’s slowly been returning to that mindframe. It’s been over a year now since Bucky came to stay permanently in Steve’s apartment, and while it’s nowhere near the same as it was (won’t ever be the same as it was), Steve’s been slowly seeing little Bucky traits reappear, shifted slightly but still too familiar.

“I want to do something,” Bucky announces suddenly. He says it with determination but he won’t meet Steve’s eyes when he looks up at him in surprise. Steve’s stomach drops, because his first thought is that Bucky’s ready to move out now that he’s more used to the world, and he tries not to let the panic show in his expression.

But then those aren’t the words that come out of Bucky’s mouth--in fact, no words do, although he looks like he’s about to say something. Instead he just leans forward and then stops, finally looking back up at Steve again and: Oh. He gets it. 

It clicks into place and he can’t resist the unspoken invitation even though he should really say something, anything. But he doesn’t. He leans forward to meet Bucky, who moves further to meet him, and the kiss is awkward at first, both of them just having woken up and no longer used to this at all, but then somehow they both shift into a better position and, again, he gets it. This isn’t just him. This is Bucky, and it’s also him, and it’s good. It’s better than good.

Steve leans far enough back to break the kiss so that he can see Bucky’s face, his eyes sweeping over his expression, searching. For what, he doesn’t know. He’s guessed but he has to know, has to double check. “This is fine?” he asks, and if it comes out a bit breathy, well, he thinks that’s fair. Good.

Bucky gets that look on his face again, the one he he has had since they were children that manages to convey, somehow, “Don’t be stupid.” What he says instead, though, is “Yes. This is fine.” And then he shifts so he’s straddling Steve instead of half-falling across his lap, and moves forward again to meet his lips, and it’s still soft and exploring and the careful sweep of his tongue along Steve’s bottom lip makes his hair stand on end for the second time that day.

It’s the same in many ways as it once was, but it’s different as well. It’s been years and decades, and both of them have changed in so many ways, died and nearly died too many times to not be different. It’s a heady bit of dissonance, and it makes Steve feel desperate. 

It’s minutes later when Bucky pulls away, presses his face into the side of Steve’s neck, saying into the skin there, “This is fine. We’re fine,” low and comforting. Steve tries to control his breathing, tries to calm down. He’s thrumming with tension, some of it good and most of it not. His fingers are fisted in Bucky’s shirt too tight, and Bucky’s hands are resting lightly on his arm and the side of his neck where his face isn’t. They’re pressed chest to chest, Bucky’s weight heavy against his hips. He lets himself collapse back against the couch cushions and Bucky follows him down, not an inch of space between them gained. 

He’s still too tired, still off-kilter from so many days away, and the shadows under Bucky’s eyes are still present and dark. But this is fine. They sit there, quiet, both of them getting their breath back, Bucky still pressing along Steve’s front. Eventually Steve releases his grip a bit, lets his hands sit flat on either side of Bucky’s waist. 

The cat, as if knowing that things are more relaxed again, chooses that moment to meow loudly from the vicinity of the kitchen. Steve can feel Bucky smile softly into the side of his neck and that alone is enough to relax him the rest of the way, to make him feel close to smiling himself. 

They sit for a few more minutes, the cat meowing periodically until Bucky pushes himself up off Steve and goes to her. Her meows fall silent with the arrival of food. 

Steve stays where he is. He thinks he could just stay on this couch for days, now. It seems like a good spot.

He returns after and climbs straight back onto Steve’s lap, settling in how he was but both of them now a bit more relaxed about it. There’s no intention, just basic touch. The cat eventually walks in, jumping onto the side table to stare at them in between cleaning her fur, nearly falling off the edge in her contortions to reach her back legs. Bucky watches her and Steve risks reaching up to trail his fingers against his head. Thankfully, he just pushes gently against Steve’s fingers and then lets them wander without protest. Through his hair. Down the bridge of his nose. Across the sweep of his chin. Back into his hair. It’s sentimental but relaxing, touch Steve had barely let himself yearn for. 

He finds himself drifting again, not quite asleep but not quite awake either. He’s only pulled out of it when Bucky slides his hand under Steve’s shirt, his palm cold against Steve’s skin. 

“You aren’t going to make me wait another several decades for this again, are you?” he asks, one finger gently plucking at the waistband of Steve’s pants. And he thought this day was already too much, but that there, that teasing tone that Steve hasn’t heard since Bucky died, that makes him almost want to cry. 

The thought distracts him enough that it catches him off-guard when Bucky rocks against him a bit as if Steve hadn’t picked up on what he was talking about. It makes his breath catch. 

“No,” he finally answers. “Just… not tonight,” he reluctantly says. “Too tired.” 

Bucky practically grins against the edge of Steve’s jaw before pressing a kiss there. It’s one thing after another today with him, and between Bucky and his exhausted, hazy brain he’s scared this is all a dream, not real. “I know,” Bucky says. “Just checking.” He kisses him again, then, the corner of his mouth and then a proper one. “Come on. To bed.” 

He pushes himself up and off for a second time, drags Steve off the couch and into the bedroom. He makes to leave after practically pushing Steve onto the bed but Steve grabs his arm before he can get far away. “Stay?” he asks, reluctantly--it might be too much, too soon. 

But Bucky’s expression is open (for him) and not in the least annoyed or unfriendly. He just nods, turns the light off, and climbs over Steve to the other side instead of walking around. 

They don’t touch until Steve feels brave enough to inch forward, to slowly pull Bucky toward him until he’s nearly half under Steve. Steve has one arm draped over him, the other up over his head so that his hand is nearly in Bucky’s hair. His head is against Bucky’s shoulder. 

The cat eventually finds them, pushing the door open with much more force than necessary and causing Bucky to raise his head up just enough to see her trot in. She settles against Bucky’s other side so that Steve’s fingers are between cat fur and Bucky. Bucky reaches down to scratch at her head, says softly, “Hey, Rosie,” and for once Steve can’t be jealous of Bucky talking to the cat more than Steve. This is more than he could ever ask for, more than he ever bothered trying to hope for, and he wants to remain awake but he can’t keep his eyes open. Instead he clings to the feeling of it as he finally falls into sleep.


End file.
